


The Tiger's Paw

by The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting



Series: Dark!Mary [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asphyxiation, BDSM, DARK!Mary, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Femdom, M/M, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Oblivious John, Rape/Non-con Elements, onesided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1366123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting/pseuds/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock will do anything so long as he can be a part of John's life.</p><p>He'll even forgive Mary for shooting him and nearly killing him.</p><p>She realises that she can do anything she wants to him because he won't dare tell John if it means disrupting their happy family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tiger's Paw

**Author's Note:**

> If you are expecting something light and fluffy, or something in the similar vein as my previous Mary fics, then I am so, so sorry. But this is not that story.  
> Written for a prompt on the kink meme that read: Sherlock will do anything so long as he can be a part of John's life.
> 
> He'll even forgive Mary for shooting him and nearly killing him.
> 
> She realises that she can do anything she wants to him because he won't dare tell John if it means disrupting their happy family. So she makes him her bitch. When John is out at work, she calls Sherlock round and doms the fuck out of him. And John hasn't a clue as Sherlock begins to break apart every time.
> 
> Please proceed with caution, this is not a happy fic.

“There’s my good boy.” Mary coos as Sherlock takes his place in front of her. She leans back in her chair, arching her back so that her breasts thrust upwards, nipples erect, offering one foot to Sherlock. He closes his eyes briefly before kissing her ankle. She grinds the heel of her other foot into the tender network of muscle and skin at the join of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. Sherlock doesn’t hiss in pain like he wants to. He also fights off the urge to bite down as he opens his eyes and instead runs his tongue along her instep. He had bitten her once, on the breast, after she’d dug her nails into the already abused flesh of his inner thigh. It hadn’t stopped her. She’d yowled but it had swiftly turned into a moan as she ground against him. And then her hand had been in his hair, pulling hard enough that several strands departed company with his scalp and she was growling “bad boy, Sherlock, naughty boy” and what followed was a long and painful enough reminder for Sherlock to remember to keep his teeth to himself in future. Except for when she demanded it. No. requested it. A straight forward order would be too simple. The point was she always left a choice. 

The choice was to put up with this, and be a part of John’s life as much as possible, or refuse and find John slowly being edged away from him. Or he could tell John. But if he did that…Well. Maybe John would believe Mary over him. Maybe he’d believe Sherlock, and he’d leave her, maybe even report her. But that would effectively mark the end of the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Him. Sherlock could picture John guilty and depressed and angry. He’d be angry at Mary, yes, but at himself and also, though he may deny it, at Sherlock. 

John’s life had been ripped apart twice already. Once by injury. Once by his best friend’s suicide. Sherlock does not think he can take another time on his conscience. 

He continues to kiss the base of Mary’s foot. He keeps his gaze fixed at about her knees, glassy without taking it in. Not looking at her body spread out before him. She wriggles her toes, nails a vibrant, stinging orange. Sherlock had painted them for her. 

This angle is awkward. Sherlock is naked, wrists and ankles are bound together behind his back, forcing him into this kneel. Mary is always more careful about the cuffs she uses on his wrists. Soft, supple leather straps, edged gently with silk so they won’t leave visible marks. The ones around his ankles are harsher. No one is going to see the grooves they leave, or indeed the red soreness from so long spent on his knees. He thinks about his offhand comment about Sally Donovan, that first night with John and gags. 

He expects Mary to comment, to admonish him but she lets it slide. She runs her toes around the curve of Sherlock’s mouth and he dutifully parts his lips. He expects to feel the press against his tongue but instead Mary retracts her leg and sits forwards in her chair, left foot still poised on Sherlock’s shoulder. She looks more animal than human like this. Something feral in the way she looks Sherlock up and down and the quirk of her lips. Something feline in the placement of her limbs and the sharp, deftly accurate movements of her body. She pushes with her left foot and Sherlock finds himself landing hard on his bound limbs. His head smacks hard against the floor. Mary slides from the seat and straddles Sherlock’s waist. The burn in his joints intensifies and he shifts against her. She practically purrs. 

She runs her hands over his neck, tilting his head to one side and considering, as though appraising a mildly interesting artwork. A not so blank canvas, what with the bruises at his clavicle and the redness where her fingers had gripped at his throat. She follows a line between his collar bones, down to the deepest scar of all, where her bullet ripped through Sherlock’s core. She hums lightly, pleased with what she sees. Sherlock has been looking at the ceiling, mapping the square inches he knows by heart, but he glances up as she shifts her weight back once more. She is sitting upon him like a queen on her throne. Her back is perfectly straight, her head held high without a hint of shame at her own nakedness. Her legs press tightly against Sherlock’s sides. And there is that secret tattoo. Small and discreet. A tiger’s paw-print on her left hipbone. Sherlock has always been oddly, morbidly transfixed by that tattoo since he deduced it on their first meeting and never thought he would see it personally. Now he wishes he never had to see it again. She sees him looking at it now and rotates her hips, grinding their bodies together obscenely. She runs her thumb over the print. 

“You like my tattoo, don’t you?” She asks. It’s rhetorical. Sherlock is not supposed to speak much at all in these sessions. “I’ve been trying to talk John into getting a matching one for ages. Maybe you should suggest it to him.” 

Sherlock is pretty sure that she doesn’t mean it. He cannot image starting a conversation about his best friend’s wife and the tattoo that no one but John is supposed to see. Mary continues. 

“I could get _you_ a matching one, how about that?” She strokes Sherlock’s own jutting hipbones made more prominent by the curve to his spine this position adds. “I know a woman who’s a tattoo artist. I could strap you down to her chair and she could do it for us. I think I’m going to talk her into letting us have a little play with her needles anyway, without the ink. She’d probably like to watch.” 

Sherlock despises her casual use of the term ‘us’. He does not want to be a part of her ‘us’. He grunts, noncommittal. Mary shuffles, crawls up his body until her damp sex is nearly level with Sherlock’s face. 

“Go on.” She says. “Kiss my paw print.” 

Sherlock does, though strangely hesitant and he has no idea why. This is perhaps one of the most innocent things she could ask of him right now. So close to being intimate but not quite. She’d need only to move over slightly and he’d find his mouth against the warm folds of her cunt. His lips flicker against permanent ink. Mary moves back eventually and rolls gracefully off of him, year of martial arts and combat training making her agile. For the briefest moment there is relief and Sherlock tries to take advantage of it by rotating his shoulders as much as he can. He tests the bonds without any real hope of working free.

Then she is back.

She presses the wrapper of the condom against his mouth. Sherlock uses his teeth to tear the wrapper, something he has gotten good at through much practice. 

He can smell the latex, taste the sickly berry flavouring of the lubricant that she chooses specifically to degrade him further. Sherlock is glad his stomach is already empty. 

Sherlock’s body is a traitor. His cock is already half hard and with just a few deft strokes from Mary it is fully alert. It’s not really his fault. He has had to train his body to respond to this to stop her from getting angry or frustrated. He plunders his mind palace for any imagery or memory that might help. 

“You can think about John, if it helps.” Mary says as she slides the condom down his length. It does not help to think about John. Even though all of this is for John, Sherlock would rather not bring him to mind right now. Not as Mary’s fingers caress his balls. Not as she mounts him. Not as she guides his cock inside herself and sits there shivering with pleasure. She rocks at first to seat herself fully and to slowly build the warmth no doubt building in her. If Sherlock ever felt warmth at this he is no longer aware of it. 

Mary’s movements increase in force and pace. She lowers herself down, supporting her weight on one arm, leaving her other hand free to play with one of Sherlock’s nipples. In a locked box at the bottom of Mary’s wardrobe, along with the last vestiges of her previous life, Mary keeps a set of vicious silver clamps. They’re some of her favourites. She likes the way Sherlock’s skin reddens under them, the way she can tighten them gradually, slowly increasing the pressure until it’s unbearable. She likes the way they sometimes draw blood. But right now she has no need for her toys. Her nails are wicked enough on their own. Sherlock keeps his cry locked inside his throat and shifts without any real hope of throwing her off. 

“That’s it.” Her voice is breathless with pleasure. “Squirm for me, Sherlock. You know how I like to watch that. It makes it so much more fun for me.”

Sherlock knows and he tries not to. Mary pinches his nipple and twists harshly and Sherlock yells despite himself. Mary lets out a brief ‘hah’ of triumph. She releases the sensitive skin and lowers herself down so that her breasts are pressed against Sherlock’s chest. She loops her arms through Sherlock’s bound arms and uses this as leverage as she finds her rhythm, pulling Sherlock up and closer to her in a mockery of an embrace. Sherlock’s joints are screaming and the pain and the feel of Mary’s teeth on his skin and the endless humiliation are all he can think about. 

This should be when Mary is at her most vulnerable. All evidence points to people being laid open when they are in the depths of pleasure. Giving herself over to wild abandon, her head thrown back in pleasure, Sherlock should be able to pick Mary apart. He should be able to see her every detail and weakness and not just the many ways in which ‘liar’ is etched on her skin.

He has to concentrate. She will not be satisfied with just her own orgasm, will not yield until he too has come, going against every will he has. Sherlock retreats into the depths of his mind. He must rely on memory and leaps of the imagination to get him through this. He draws on every fantasy he might ever have had on how sex would be. Teenage, hormone fuelled hazes for the most part. Research he had undertaken purely for the sake of data and to gage his own reactions. The Woman, who had intrigued more than aroused him. More recently nothing more than stirrings quickly tampered down. 

John remains locked in that special room inside Sherlock’s palace. He will not sully or taint his precious thoughts of John with this whole sordid ordeal any more than needs be.

There are so very many new doors in Sherlock’s mind palace of late. So many corridors he keeps boarded up, locked away behind keys and chains and deadbolts that must never ever be opened. Increasingly he finds these defences inadequate. _Things_ are starting to creep out between the cracks.

It takes him a long time to find his way through the growing and darkening labyrinth. Longer still to find his way back out again. 

~

He comes back to himself to find the weight on top of him has gone. Mary is peeling the condom from his now flaccid penis. He is glad to have missed the completion this time. Mary disposes of the condom then holds her fingers to Sherlock’s face for him to lick clean. He sucks and laps at the digits; sticky with her own come and that foul, stomach-turning lubricant. 

She stands and kicks him lightly in the ribs to get him to roll over. Sherlock is so relieved when she releases the cuffs around his wrists and ankles that he finds himself mumbling ‘thank you’. 

“You’re welcome, pet.” She strokes his sore arms and legs as he goes limp, his bones liquefied inside of him, letting his body sink down onto the carpet one burning muscle at a time. “I always take care of my pet, don’t I?” 

Sherlock takes agreement as the easier of the two options. 

The carpet where they have been laying smells of sweat and sex. Later it will smell of nothing but cleaning products. Mary is always thorough in tidying up after their sessions. Nothing left to let John in on the secrets that unfold in his name. 

Mary’s hands are at Sherlock’s throat again. She clicks the leather collar into place and Sherlock nearly groans knowing they are not finished yet. It is the thick black collar with the silver buckles. Mary had spent an entire afternoon with Sherlock trying on different restraints and telling him which he looked prettiest in.

“Come along, pet.” She attaches a matching lead and tugs, forcing Sherlock to get to his hands and knees and crawl after her or risk being choked. “John will be home soon and I’ve got something special planned for you before then.” 

Sherlock follows like an animal. She keeps the lead taught so that it forces his neck straight, his head up. It is not Mary’s goal to have his head subserviently bowed right now. That gives him far more opportunity to detach from the situation. He is forced to watch her body move in front of him. Her hips swing and her arse moves in a way that he knows many men, John included, consider tempting. Sherlock has seen John lick his lips when Mary walks in front of him. Sherlock stumbles and Mary yanks hard at the lead without looking back at him. The welts on his arse and the backs of his legs, souvenir of yesterday’s activities, stretch with each movement.

The tiles of the bathroom floor are a shock after the carpeted living room. Sherlock flinches, not sure if it is a relief or fresh pain that the coolness brings to his raw knees. Mary feels his faltering through the leather connecting them but this time relents. She turns to look at him and sees him shuddering. 

“Poor darling.” She purrs. She crouches down beside him and pets his hair almost lovingly. “You want me to make it stop hurting?”

Sherlock nods. Mary smiles, showing her teeth.

“Well no can do I’m afraid. I’m having way too much fun here. But don’t worry, I’ve got something to take your mind off of it.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock allows Mary to tilt his head so that he can see what she has laid out and waiting for them. A strap-on is draped over the edge of the bath, obscene against the ordinary trappings of shower gel and shampoo. Sherlock can feel the blood draining from his face. He stupidly tries to retreat, his hands slipping out beneath him. Mary clicks her tongue in disapproval. 

“Now, now. None of that. I thought I’d taught you better than this but clearly not.” Mary grabs the back of his head and forces him all the way down to the floor once more. “No matter, I can always teach you again.” 

Sherlock’s face is held down against the tiles until he stops struggling. Mary lands an open palmed strike to his backside before standing again. 

“You never know, you might even get to like our new friend.”

Mary keeps hold of the uncomfortably short lead whilst she perches on the edge of the bath to attach the toy to herself. The straps are what is probably intended to be a playful pink. The phallus itself is the same tangerine as Mary’s nails. Attention to the every last detail of Sherlock’s undoing. It juts out lewdly from her body once she is finished, thick, long and rigid. Despite the nauseating colours this is clearly not meant for light play. Certainly not when it is being wielded by this particular woman. 

“Go on, Sherlock.” She prompts. “Say hello.” 

Sherlock shakily gets to his knees again. He is sure they will be rubbed to bleeding before the day is out. Mary shoves the fake cock into his face, hitting sharply across his cheekbone with it. Sherlock opens his lips and allows the tip to breech his mouth. Clearly running out of patience Mary grabs his head and forces him to take it fully. She fucks his face with one, two, three, four hard thrusts, groaning as though it really were a part of her anatomy sensitive to Sherlock’s touch. When she finally pulls back, telling Sherlock what a good little cocksucker he is, he gasps for breath. The back of his throat feels bruised. 

Mary next orders Sherlock to the bathtub, with instructions to bend over and brace himself against it. He does so without trying to run even when she lets go of the lead. It’s like she’s already fucked rebellion out of him. 

She takes her place behind him and runs her hands over his arse. The marks from her cane are only just starting to heal. She grabs two firm handfuls of flesh and kneads, squeezes, pinches. Sherlock feels one welt reopen and start to trickle blood down his thigh. Mary licks across the wound as she spreads his cheeks apart. Her fingers circle over Sherlock’s entrance and he tries yet again to move, to shift her attention elsewhere, anywhere else than on the task she has in mind. It does no good. Sherlock hears Mary spit and feels the saliva against his arse and her hand as she rubs viciously up and down his cleft, spreading what will probably be Sherlock’s only lubrication. 

“Like I said,” She says, inserting two fingers into him at once. “You can always think about John, if that helps.”

Sherlock turns his head to one side, hiding his face against his arm. He tries to make his mind go blank as Mary begins to fuck him open. She pulls on the collar, chokes him from behind. Sherlock wishes he would pass out.

~

Sherlock is still in the bathroom when John comes back. He’s been hiding out in there since Mary finished with him. They’d showered together and she’d been careful to scrub every last piece of evidence from her own skin while Sherlock half-heartedly followed suit. Mary could carve her signature into his chest and no one would see it. 

Hearing John’s key in the lock, Sherlock is quick to throw on the clothes Mary left for him and go shuffling out to greet him. 

Sherlock could very easily hate John. He’s sure normal people would grow to detest someone who, albeit inadvertently, were the reason or this level of torment. He could resent him for being the cause of all this. He could avoid him at all costs purely so that he does not have to go through this on an almost daily basis. 

All such thoughts are erased as soon as Sherlock sees John. John smiles easily as he hangs up his coat.

“Evening, Sherlock.” He says, slightly surprised. “Didn’t know you’d be coming round today.” 

Sherlock hugs him before he can stop himself. 

Mary is cooking, the smell of garlic and chilli drifting down the hall. The TV in on in the background. All perfectly normal. Nothing bad happened here today. 

“Well, this is a nice surprise.” John teases, patting Sherlock on the back awkwardly. They don’t normally do this. Sherlock steps back hastily.

“Good day at work?” Sherlock offers to try and get the situation back on a pattern they were both familiar with. It takes a great force to unstick his tongue. It’s like it’s been glued to the roof of his mouth.

“You tell me.” Says John, raising his eyebrows and holding his arms out to the side for inspection. He’s joking but Sherlock latches on to it. This Sherlock can do. This Sherlock is good at. He considers for only a moment, taking in the creases in John’s clothes, the scrubbed patches on his shoes, the untidiness of his hair.

“No. Not a good day.” He concludes. “Flu and stomach bugs going around and at least one other doctor is out sick so you’re covering for him. A patient vomited on your shoes this morning. Although I imagine however bad your day was it doesn’t compare to the young man with the infection you saw before coming home. He’s got to explain to his girlfriend now.” Or indeed, not as bad as Sherlock’s day either but he’s not going to say that. 

John shakes his head incredulously. 

“You know, no matter what I might tell you when I’m pissed off, that actually never gets old.” 

It is worth it after all. 

 

~

The thing with Mary is that she always behaves as though nothing at all is changed between her and Sherlock when there is an audience. She insists Sherlock stay for food as much as John does. Throughout the evening there are no sideways glances, no cruel touches when John’s back is turned. Not even the slightest offhand comment. She taps Sherlock on the butt to get him to move out of the way of the oven but it’s done so playfully that John is in full view of the scene and just laughs.

When dinner is over and John-grown concerned by Sherlock’s quietness, and paleness and general look of ill-health - insists on checking him over, Mary stands to one side looking so concerned even Sherlock might have been fooled. John places his hand against Sherlock’s forehead, checks his pulse, gets him to open his mouth so that he can peer inside and see if his throat is inflamed. Sherlock has a moment of panic as John cups his face and tilts his head back a little towards the light. Memories surface. The locked doors in his mind palace rattle. He does not like being in this position. He even wonders briefly if there really is any visible damage to the inside of his mouth. 

But he’s being illogical.

John quizzes Sherlock on if he has been eating enough, drinking enough, getting enough sleep. Sherlock can honestly say that although his eating habits may not be the best he is eating no less than before. It is not his fault if he can’t always keep his food down these days although of course he doesn’t say that part out loud.

Sleep never was his forte. 

Mary scolds him and practically begs him to take better care of himself.

“You can stay here for the night.” John says as he sits down on the sofa. He pulls Sherlock down next to him so that the taller man’s head is resting on his shoulder. He probably expects Sherlock to pull away but instead Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes deeply. He feels the sofa shift as Mary sits on John’s other side and mirrors Sherlock’s position. Her head is only a few inches away from Sherlock’s, separated by John’s body and the soft, warm wool he is wearing. 

“Why don’t you tell John about those murder cases you’ve been looking at?” Mary suggests, all innocence and friendliness. 

Obediently, Sherlock recounts the three murders reported within the last month. All connected even if the police seem unaware of that yet. Teenagers who disappeared from their homes in Europe with no money or even their passports and turn up dead in London a year later. Other details that the police have missed but will no doubt prove crucial. At least eight on the scale of interest. He expects Lestrade will contact him soon. At some point during all this John begins to stroke at Sherlock’s shoulder, subconsciously mirroring the movements his other hand is making on Mary’s skin. Sherlock falters in his speech and John’s movements instantly stop with a muttered ‘sorry, Sherlock’.

He wishes to say that he doesn’t mind. He hates himself for being so damn jumpy lately. 

~

That night Sherlock lays awake in the guest bedroom and wishes Mary was not sleeping beside John only one wall away.

~

Mary comes in to see him in the morning. As soon as Sherlock hears her footsteps outside –lighter and quicker than John’s, more furtive than if she were merely getting up to get ready for work- he lays flat and feigns sleep. She opens the door silently, holding down the handle so it doesn’t slam shut. She tiptoes across the floor and kneels over him on the bed. 

“How are you feeling this morning, pet?” She smiles down at him. Sherlock keeps his eyes shut and doesn’t move. Mary pinches his cheek hard enough to leave a pink mark and have his eyes snapping open. 

“Aww still feeling _ill_? You’d better let me check you over. I am a nurse after all.” She leans even closer, the front of her pyjama top dipping low and showing more of her cleavage. She takes his chin in one hand. “Open wide and say ‘ahh’.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth noiselessly. Mary peers into his throat with a mockery of the care shown by John the previous night. She spits onto his tongue and forces his mouth shut. She hisses into his ear.

“John’s awfully concerned about you. He thinks there’s something wrong. You should have heard him going on and on about it last night. Boring really.” She sits up strokes Sherlock’s thigh through the sheets. “It’s very naughty of you to get him so worried, especially after our fun day yesterday. He’s a busy man, Sherlock, he doesn’t have time for you to start acting up.” She gives his leg a final, sharp slap and gets up.

“I’ve got to work today and it’s John’s day off so you’d better be a good boy and let him know everything’s fine. Lestrade will probably call today. Take John on that case. Get some exercise like a good little pet.”

She leaves Sherlock without waiting for him to say a single word.

~

Sherlock is glad that John rises late on his mornings off. By the time he surfaces Mary is long gone and it is safe for Sherlock to venture out to have breakfast with him. Sat at the table together Sherlock closes his eyes and let’s John’s voice wash over him so he does not have to see the women’s magazine discarded on the table, the fluffy slippers Mary left by her chair. It can be like old times back at Baker Street. 

Lestrade does call by the middle of the morning. Sherlock could have timed it to almost the exact second and he’s already up and putting on his coat before he’s answered. Of course John comes with him. 

It’s even more like old times out in London. Sherlock’s knee keeps jiggling in anticipation as they take a taxi and twice John places his hand on top to stop it. Sherlock scans through his phone, chasing leads. Facebook pages, blog posts, missing people’s reports, emails he shouldn’t have access to. He fires off his thoughts to John. John tells him he’s both amazing and brilliant before they’ve even got to the crime scene. A new record.

Things go a little askew when they get there. This one is the same age as the other victims, also missing from Europe within the same time frame, also found dead in London without any way of getting there. But this one is a little different from the others which Sherlock knows is part of the reason he’s here. Just like with the taxi driver case, with any serial murder, you’re always waiting for the one thing that stands out. The one time they change the pattern. 

There are visible signs of sexual assault on this one. Torn clothes. Bruising around his mouth, on his hips. Deep scratches down his back. Blood. Evidence of him being penetrated. 

He leaves the crime scene briefly saying he needs to get better reception on his phone.

“It’s 2014.” He snaps. “Where in London doesn’t have good mobile phone coverage these days?”

Coverage was fine where he was.

Funny. A scene like this would never have bothered Sherlock before. Stupid really.

A female member of his homeless network is waiting nearby and he calls her over. He gives her £20 and the promise of more when she brings him the information he needs. 

“Thanks sir.” She says, tucking the money into the back pocket of her low-waist jeans. Her t-shirt rides up exposing her midriff. The edges of Sherlock’s vision go blurry. The girl notices him staring and grins.

“Oi!” She gives him a little playful shove and tosses her hair. “If you stare that much I’ll have to charge you double.” 

She turns on her heel and walks away, throwing a glance over her shoulder to see if Sherlock is still watching. She moves her hips the same way Mary does. 

Sherlock wonders which would be worse, for the girl to think he is interested in her, or for him to say the truth. It was not the flash of skin that had Sherlock going weak. It was the new tattoo the girl had recently acquired on her hip. 

A wolf’s paw, not a tiger’s. But still. Too close for comfort. 

John comes to find him and Sherlock says he is fine- which he isn’t – and that he has a new lead –which he doesn’t- and he goes back to the crime scene, with John. 

John pats him on the back. 

Sherlock tells himself that this is worth it. Which it is, of course. If this is the price he must pay to be a part of John’s life, then it _is_ worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> A follow up to this story is now posted...Enjoy!


End file.
